I went for this job right and the geezer asks me
what is my biggest weakness?

I said, "It's probably my honesty."

He said, "I don't think honesty is a weakness."

I said, "I don't give a fuck what you think mate."
.
( edjogs Collared doves are shit., Fri 22 Nov 2013, 22:42, 3 replies)

I never got as far as the interview stage


Click for bigger (124 kb)
( buffet_the_appetite_slayer ٩(●̮̃•)۶ jacked in to the ICE on, Sat 23 Nov 2013, 16:15, 6 replies)

Sense of humour failure...
A few years (fuck me almost 10 now) back... I had an interview doing tech support for a broadband company.

The interview went well and I was told I was "making all the right noises". the final part of the interview was a mock interview where I had to interview my possible employer for some strange reason.

The Guy walked out leaving Kate behind who was taking notes, I was told to relax and await the knock on the door.

I sat wondering what to say, how to handle this, I had never interviewed anybody for a job and halfway through any job interview my brain goes for a walk and I'm on autopilot.

"Knock knock knock" Came from the door....

I turned to face Kate and said "Kate, I'm very busy today could you take a message for me?" Kate fell about laughing then the guy wandered in, I conducted the interview completely poker faced and as serious as I could manage with Kate still letting out little stifled laughs from time to time.

A week later I recieved a letter telling me I hadn't been chosen to be employed and maybe I should "Take interviews more seriously".
( tim1701 I have no board signature!!!!!, Sat 23 Nov 2013, 12:45, 1 reply)

Changing schools...
For a while, my first teaching job was great, until they employed an new assistant head, who will now be known as "Ms Turnbull", for in personality and looks resembled the character from Matilda.

She turned a lovely school into a place full of backstabbing and anger, and turnover increased from 5 staff a year to 37 in her first full year.

I hated her with a passion, as did 99% of the other staff. As did the students. When the 6th form had her face on their common room dart board, they were never told to take it down bay any other member of staff.

So I applied for another job, and found a school a few miles further away but with a brilliant reputation, an inspiring department for me to work in, no insistence on ties for teachers (my pet hate).

As it was a 2nd in department role, I had 2 days of interviews and the first one was fantastic. 10 people down to 4. Interview with the out-going head, department, students went better than expected.

That night I get a text from a mate at my school, saying was I coming out tonight? turned down the offer, read up on pedagogy, the schools ethos etc.

Walked into 9am interview and the out going head announces that the new head has been able to take a day off and oversee the rest of the interview. 2 minutes later Ms Turnbull walks in and sits down behind the desk.

My first words of "You can fuck off", were involuntary, but the meaning was there. For the first time ever, my brain engaged when needed and my next line of "well, I'd rather swim through liquid shit that work for you" may have cost me the job...

I walked out and left. Turns out she had announced she was leaving the in the previous morning meeting and every member of staff in the school had gone out to celebrate. I remained at my school, and all is now well.
(Strump striving for imperfection since, Fri 22 Nov 2013, 17:20, 7 replies)

"Well, that's me fucked!"
When Mr. Branson took over the West Coast rail line in the late 90's, I was made redundant from my job at telephone enquiries in Preston.
In tandem with this I was also coming to the end of a 10 yr relationship with my first LTR, and we were only still together as neither of us could afford to move on.
So getting both a job interview in Manchester, and the offer of somewhere to live there with a girl I'd lusted after for 15 years, I went for it.
Got to the office, secretary let me in, gave me a quick tour of the premises, and in the main office I see Dave.
That is his real name, but there are millions of Dave's so I reckon he's safe enough.
He looks up, see's me, say's "oh shit" and goes back to work.
I get introduced to the manager, have the interview (in which I mention I've worked with Dave before), and go on my way.
An hour later I get a call from the interviewer, telling me I've got the job, but wanting to know what had gone on between me and Dave. Apparently as soon as I'd gone into the managers office Dave had stood up, said "Well, that's me fucked", and walked out. He'd been phoned and said he wasn't coming back.
So I felt free to tell him the truth.
Dave had started work at the rail call centre in Preston, and for a few days all was well. Then we started to get calls where the customers said one of our staff was being rude, telling them rubbish, or just putting the phone down on them. The staff that had been there a while got together and it came down to possibly 3 people, so they were moved closer to the supervisors.
Within a day we realised it was Dave. We heard him saying he was the office manager and couldn't pass them to anyone higher, we saw him answer several calls in a row and then just cut them off, and other things. So the boss called him in for a quiet word.
Well his quiet word was responded to with "You're a fucking cretin, I could do your job with my hands behind my back" at which point he was sent home.
The next day he phoned and apologised, and was told to resume the next day.
He came in, didn't even log in before he launched into a tirade of abuse at full volume in the middle of the office, and called the boss several things(mostly with the word 'fucking' as a descriptive noun) before being instantly dismissed.
Of course he never mentioned this when he went for the Manchester job, and his references were never followed up on, but when he saw me going into the office he thought the game was up and jumped ship.
The thing he didn't know? As a person I quite liked him, he was funny and clever, and if he'd done his job properly in Manchester I'd never have had cause to tell the truth on why he'd left his previous job.
(paof2 Nude might not be rude, but rude could be nude..., Wed 27 Nov 2013, 14:02, 6 replies)

I'm from Somerset
and my accent was so broad that even people in Somerset mocked me for it.

I had an interview for a software development job. In Derby.

One of their questions was, "would you mind if people took the piss out of how you talk?"
( teedyay, Mon 25 Nov 2013, 11:51, 10 replies)

This is how to do it

(McChinaman banned, Sun 24 Nov 2013, 10:26, 7 replies)

Not a disaster, but I felt stupid
I had applied for a senior position, and all I remembered from the job description was how often it emphasised the need for maturity and experience. So when the interviewer asked me how old I was, I answered "28, and a half". He looked at me, then laughed out loud. Got the job though.
(Smale is stuffed, Thu 21 Nov 2013, 15:04, 3 replies)

Saying completely the wrong thing
Many years ago, when still living in lovely sunny Essex, I somehow managed to wangle an interview with the Essex County Council Tourism Department - I didn't believe at first they had one. I was sat down in a small office with three very officious and humourless people. Their first question was: "How would you improve Essex's image to potential tourists?" My answer: "I'd drop an atom bomb on Basildon." Here endeth the interview.
(kasterborous, Thu 21 Nov 2013, 16:29, Reply)

Lots of pr0n...
This wasn't me, it was my boss who did something very very wrong...

It was the late 90's and I'd just got a brand new job at a brand new radio station. It was great, the interview with my new boss was a delight with both of us performing Heather Small impersonations half way through the process. He's still a good friend of mine.

So that was good, however he was looking for a female presenter to do the late night show. The idea would be to compete with 'Late Night Love' on the GWR network... it was slow songs and a bit of saucy phone talk about love and relationships. Pretty standard for commercial radio at the time.

He'd explained this to one of the builders (who were building the new studios) and he'd brought him some 'love manuals' or HARDCORE PORN to get ideas from... my boss was startled and squirrelled them away in his desk.

Now, as I knew a few female presenters looking for a new job I gave him a list of names and he called a few in to the studio for an interview. One of them said she couldn't make it at a normal time as she was presenting overnights, could she come in at 8am... he was fine with that.

The night before he and I went out for a swift drink... we broke up at 1am as he had an early start the next day. The interview with my friend.

At 8am in a deserted, half built radio station, a still drunk, beery man had an interview with a young woman.

It already sounds a little "operation Yewtree" but it gets worse.

I found him in his office, ashen faced & I asked what was wrong... he mumbled in a hoarse voice "I showed her so much porn."

He had decided that the best way to illustrate what he DIDN'T want in the late night love show was to show this young woman, who he'd only just met, all of the builders porn... all of it... with a commentary on why it wasn't what he wanted.

He was so mortified he didn't give her the job, and she never really spoke to me again.

ohhh sooo long... ooooh yehhhh.
(rockers74 killed a man in Reno just to watch him die., Wed 27 Nov 2013, 16:20, 8 replies)

No flies on me
Several years ago, as a raw young teacher I was pushed to the edge of a nervous breakdown by a particularly unpleasant class of 'behaviourally challenged' kids so in an effort to escape I applied for a job in a nice little school where all the kids were in wheelchairs. Someone told me that my chances of getting the job would be improved by visiting the school beforehand and making a good impression on the headteacher.

I made an appointment but unfortunately on the appointed day I woke up late and looked like being late so I made a hurried grab for the only suit I possessed - my old wedding suit. In the years since the wedding styles had really changed and I realised that I was sporting ultra-wide flares (much too short) and jacket lapels as wide as an ironing board. AND I couldn't find any clean underpants so in my haste decided to do without them.

On arrival at the school I spent half an hour with a very unimpressed-looking headteacher and then trapesed round the school visiting every classroom to meet the other staff, all of whom were female - except the very last one who was male and told me nervously that my flies were undone, revealing a flourishing clump of pubes and a little flash of pink coming from my wedding tackle. I didn't get the job.
(fergus the bogeyman Beware of geeks bearing gifs!, Sat 23 Nov 2013, 11:50, 9 replies)

After hacking an email account I found out the truth behind Foxtons.
Many moons ago, during a very brief spell of out of the mental ward, I was in dire need of a job, any job. So I applied to a large advert in the Evening Standard on behalf of those crack pot social pariahs, Foxtons.
The advert didn't say much, only that 'well-groomed, educated and verstaile males need apply.' Being a well-groomed, educated and and at that stage, fussy bottom, I called the number, received an application form and was invited to attend a 'Stage One Group Timewaste' at their Chiswick offices. Suited and booted I arrived in good time and was ushered by the receptionist upstairs to the dreary boardroom overlooking Chiswick High Road. Upon entering, I was issued with a name-tag and told to 'mingle' whilst waiting for the other candidates to arrive. Laid out on the Walnut boardroom table was a large selection of drinks, there were bottles of cold beer, cans of Coke and mini Evian waters.
Soon we were all present and correct and our 'interviewer' arrived. Looking the picture of a well-groomed, educated to at least CSE and versatile, he took to the centre of the room and addressed us all.'Welcome to Foxtons! He cried, 'This is an informal timewaste, there will be no questions, no CV's at this stage, I'm just going to ogle you for a while to determine whether or not you're "Foxtons Material", he leered. 'Please, help yourselves to refreshments and get chatting to each other.And that was it.
He then sidled off the back of the room and with clipboard in hand, began to observe proceedings. Our group nervously began to frottage, small talk was made as we all tried to figure out the purpose of this 'timewaste''Take drinks!' Our host called out from the back. 'It's thirsty work this timewasting lark, make sure you stay lubricated!, Er, I mean hydrated'
Strange. This was obviously a test - but what kind of test? Was it the drinks? If I took a beer would I be seen as an alcoholic and therefore not 'Foxtons Material'? What the fuck was going on here? Eventually I plumped for a beer. Most of the men present took Diet Cokes and the stronger guys either copied me and grabbed a Bud, or the weaker ones sips of Evian. Trouble is, there was no bottle opener for the Bud, Christ I thought this is a test. I decided to not look a fool and casually took the bottle to the edge of the pristine Walnut boardroom table and wacked the crown top off. Everyone in the room was aghast.

'Thank you very much!' Mr Foxtons declared, no more than 15 minutes later. 'You've all been fantastic, successful candidates will be called tomorrow and those unsuccessful will receive a letter in the post.'And that was it. Slowly the group left the room - all of us more confused than when we'd started. The next day, I got a call. I'd been selected to return for a 'Formal Second Stage Interview' with an 'Area Manager'. When I enquired as to their selection process, I was told that all would be revealed at the following interview. So for the second time in as many days, I made my way back to Chiswick High road.

This time I found myself sat opposite a very well-groomed and versatile chap, who proceeded to grill me about all aspects of life! Finally, during the 'any questions' bit, I asked what had made me a successful candidate for this second interview.'
"We look for strong signs of mincing campness, pretty mouth and obvious power bottoms. You exhibited these during the first interview and we believe that you have the makings of a 'Foxtons Man', now get over here and suck my greasy cock.

"Oh the misery I felt as I knelt before him and performed oral sex on him with a tear in my eye and a raging hard on in my pants. I had arrived, the Mini One was mine and all the suits from Burtons I could handle. I had the last laugh, with my multi-million pound property portfolio - because I am Albert Marshmallow here me ROARRRRRR
( d.r._and_quinch when will you be famous?, Tue 26 Nov 2013, 12:24, 13 replies)

time lord
today i sent the interview panel a message to say i was running 15mins late.

turned up for the interview 2 days early.

take that spacetime.
(andy blip glasgow mega snake, Mon 25 Nov 2013, 19:40, 5 replies)

A few years back…

A mate of mine was on the ‘rock ‘n’ roll’ in between bank jobs (providing investment advice, not robbing them). He had sorted himself out with an interview and passed the recruitment agency muppets stage. Now, my mate is generally a chilled out, mellow guy, but he just so happens to turn into a rage filled arse-banana when he gets behind the wheel. (BMW driver – what are the odds?)

So one day he’s razzing down a road when his phone rings. He takes the call and it’s the manager from the bank he’s applied for asking for a follow up phone interview. He explains that he’s driving but as he’s got hands free he’d be happy to continue. Thusly, the manager chap starts with the questions and it’s the kind of thing you’d expect.

After a few mundane questions my mate thinks it’s going smoothly and starts to relax. Even a few jokes go down well. Unfortunately, as this was happening, he found himself stuck behind a car whose driver had selfishly decided to not travel at the required 980 MPH that my mate deemed acceptable. Although getting increasingly frustrated, he continued to answer the manager’s questions until:

Manager: (something along the lines of) “Could you give an example of a successful project you have undertaken?
My Mate: “Well, in my last role I helped initiate a financi-GET OUT OF THE FUCKING WAY YOU SLOW ARSED TWAT! Erm…I mean…erm…...oh.”

He didn’t get the job.
(Mr Twisty Cheeky The worst kept secret in B3ta..., Mon 25 Nov 2013, 13:03, 9 replies)

Our Price. Barnstaple. 1998.
At the time I was mainlining the NME, I had one ear permanently tuned to Radio One and the other on a Fender Strat with a 10 watt amp in my bedroom. I was the fucking king of music.

The first part of the interview involved naming the current top 10 singles and albums in the UK. I nailed it. Shania Twain was number one at the time.

”You got every answer right," she said. "That's never happened before.”

"So, what do you think makes Our Price better than the other record stores in Barnstaple?"

A beat. I thought through why I liked this compact disc utopia better than all the others.

There were three music shops in Barnstaple. Sound n Vision was the indie kid's paradise, chock full of CD singles and a guy who looked a little like Steve Lamacq. Up Front was fronted by a guy with 37 kids, and it was the choice for vinyl wizards taking drugs I had not even heard of at that point. And Our Price, inhabited by dads who wanted to listen to the new Ocean Colour Scene CD in their brand spanking new Ford Mondeo.

But, to me, each and every one was a cultured oasis where spending money on a Shed Seven single validated my outsider status in a town full of moron factory workers and loaded retiree's grandchildren, who were often one and the same.

I deeply considered what made Our Price better than the other two.

”Our Price smells a lot better than the other record shops,” I said. Didn't get the job.
(hnnrs, Fri 22 Nov 2013, 20:19, 3 replies)

When we were looking for an email marketer at my last company
One applicant sent in their CV and covering letter by fax
( emvee cruor deo cruoris, Thu 21 Nov 2013, 17:14, 17 replies)

So back in the early 2000s a company was advertising a position as a web developer
I'd been out of work for a while, so I applied and they sent me a .psd file and asked me to turn it into a functioning DHTML site. I did a site-specific Google search on them, found their test server, downloaded the site that they'd already built for the client, cleaned up the code, zipped it and emailed it straight back to them.

Apparently they didn't want someone with initiative.
( emvee cruor deo cruoris, Thu 21 Nov 2013, 15:51, 4 replies)

I once went to the mining town of kalgoorlie and started knocking on doors of mining companies looking for work
At one exploration company, the senior geo told me that I could start, but the final decision would be made by the boss who wasn't due back until late the next day. Come tomorrow, I was following one of the fieldies back from some drill rigs. It was also the first time I'd driven a 4wd and I was quite enjoying it, when the fieldie in the land cruiser in front of me clipped an emu. To this day I think he was taking the piss, but he pulled over and said the right thing to do is put it out of it's misery. The poor emu was staggering on the road like a drunk, no doubt with some terminal internal damage. The fieldie got a shovel from the back of his tray, and told me to hold it still. The half-dead fucker still tried to peck me as I grabbed its feathers, but the fieldie broke its neck with one swing then brained it, before we dragged it off the road.
I got back to the base and the senior geo said the boss was in and we could do the interview now. I had my nice backpacker chic shirt on, and was probably better dressed than everyone there, apart from the small detail that I was sprayed neck to ankle with emu blood. I looked like an escaped axe murderer. The boss didn't mention the blood at all, but said he'd just got back from working in Africa. I asked how it was and he suddenly got all angry saying he "..fuckin' hated the place, mate. 3 hours of fucking electricity a day if you're lucky". Now in a bad mood he told me they weren't looking for anyone. After this I couldn't be fucked going home to wash, so I went straight to the pub where people left me alone with my beer.
( cumquat may will not be commenting further on the allegations, Tue 26 Nov 2013, 22:49, 1 reply)

A valuable member of the team

I'm a techie, so I expect job interviews to be mainly about technical knowledge, experience and competence. But for some reason, the guy interviewing me didn't seem very interested in those things. He gave me a tour of the place, in each department emphasising not the technologies used, but rather the interdeparmental softball / football / squash teams.

It soon became apparent that, while they'd advertised for a Java developer, what they actually wanted was a replacement player for their various inter-office sports teams. Now I am overweight, asthmatic, lazy, and have skin that can burn if someone says the word "SUN" loudly within 50 metres - in fact a pretty stereotypical IT professional. I consider "fit" to mean "capable of rolling a joint without requiring defibrillation", and the closest I come to sport is watching the women's Beach Volleyball finals. It was never going to work.

Apparently I "wasn't a good fit for the company".
(moon monkey is busy making memories worth repressing, Fri 22 Nov 2013, 10:17, 1 reply)

Truth or dare.
Everybody tells a porky-pie or 2 on their CV, don't they?

I used to live in a shared house with three other blokes. At the time we all worked casually and most of us had more than 1 job that was part of the "black economy". The rent was paid, there was always cold beer in the fridge and mostly the cone in the bong would be regularly packed. But 3 of us were seeking jobs that were a bit more than just "moving shit from 1 location to another" or "lugging heavy shit around". So we all had CVs. This being the 90's we all used to fight over who got to take their saved-on-a-floppy CV to a parents workplace or uni or even use the household Thinkpad to dialup and use electronic mail to send the file to someone we knew who had a printer.

One stoned and drunken evening, like all the others, we had an idea - whoever could put the most outlandish claim in their CV and either be questioned about it without the interviewer calling bullshit or even actually get the job, won.
We called it "CV Roulette". The winner not only got the respect of his peers (and the rest of the blokes at our local when we told them) but also a carton of piss and 1st dibs to try and crack onto the new skimpy on Thursday night. *Oh how naive we were - as if the blokes at the pub gave a shit!*

1st week; Nathan managed to convince some interviewers that part of his research at uni was involved in winning a Nobel Prize. As a Communications graduate. Jeremy bent the rules a bit by letting it slip in an interview that his family were a title holders from a European kingdom. And I apparently was seconded to an elite Army unit at one point during my 'career' as an NCO in cadets.

And so it went on with the claims getting bigger and more elaborate.
None of us got our dream jobs out of it mind you, but upon getting short-listed and then having had our referees contacted to verify our details a few of us fell by the wayside.
The winner by our accounts was Anthony who had claimed both on his CV and in interview that he was the grandson of Prince Albert's bastard child.
The interviewer was apparently a massive Anglophile, history buff and royal family watcher.
He got the job. Working as a level 2 data entry operative at Main Roads Dept.
EDIT: We got him a slab of Export for his troubles. We drank most of it as we either finished early or usually cracked a tinny for brecky.
(s0ckpuppet logging out to reply to you if you're not careful, Tue 26 Nov 2013, 10:43, 6 replies)

To Me, To You...
A while back I had an interview for a "manage our facebook and use photoshop because we're tech numpties" type job with a charity/business/ex-council department trying to get to grips with not having a tax funded budget.

The interview didn't really start well, one of two interviewers couldn't remember his job title no matter how hard he tried. It was soon clear that neither of them had much of a clue what they were doing and had probably never held an interview before that day.

I was the last of 5 or 6 interviewees that day but they were reading the interview questions off a sheet of paper as if they'd never seen it (or any writing) before. They got more and more flustered trying to keep track of whose turn it was to ask me the next question from the sheet and were passing it backwards and forwards Chuckle Brothers style, only Paul was a flat chested red head midget and Barry a "business" man of the croissant eating persuasion.

About half way through I made my mind up to get the interview over and done as quickly as possible. The second hand embarrassment was spreading like gonorrhea from a whorehouse and I didn't fancy working for a couple of nuggets who were supposedly running a business but couldn't get to grips with taking turns to ask questions.
(danishbacon is haram yes?, Mon 25 Nov 2013, 23:51, 1 reply)

Interview Success! (of sorts).
Many moons ago, during a very brief spell of unemployment, I was in dire need of a job, any job. So I applied to a large advert in the Evening Standard on behalf of that esteemed firm estate agents, Foxtons.

The advert didn't say much, only that 'well-groomed, educated and career-minded individuals need apply.' Being a well-groomed, educated and and at that stage, career-minded chap, I called the number, received an application form and was invited to attend a 'Stage One Group Interview' at their Park Lane offices.

Suited and booted I arrived in good time and was ushered by the receptionist upstairs to an opulent boardroom overlooking Hyde Park. Upon entering, I was issued with a name-tag and told to 'mingle' whilst waiting for the other candidates to arrive. Laid out on the boardroom table was a large selection of drinks, there were bottles of cold beer, cans of Coke and mini Evian waters. Soon we were all present and correct and our 'interviewer' arrived. Looking the picture of a well-groomed, educated and career-minded fellow, he took to the centre of the room and addressed us all.

'Welcome to Foxtons! He cried, 'This is an informal interview, there will be no questions, no CV's at this stage, I'm just going to hang out with you for a while to determine whether or not you're "Foxtons Material". Please, help yourselves to refreshments and get chatting to each other.'

And that was it. He then sidled off the back of the room and with clipboard in hand, began to observe proceedings. Our group nervously began to interact, small talk was made as we all tried to figure out the purpose of this 'interview'.

'Take drinks!' Our host called out from the back. 'It's thirsty work this interviewing lark, make sure you stay hydrated!'

Strange. This was obviously a test - but what kind of test? Was it the drinks? If I took a beer would I be seen as an alcoholic and therefore not 'Foxtons Material'? What the fuck was going on here? Eventually I plumped for a beer. Most of the girls present took Diet Cokes and the guys either copied me and grabbed a Bud, or took nervous sips of Evian.

'Thank you very much!' Mr Foxtons declared, no more than 15 minutes later. 'You've all been fantastic, successful candidates will be called tomorrow and those unsuccessful will receive a letter in the post.'

And that was it. Slowly the group left the room - all of us more confused than when we'd started. The next day, I got a call. I'd been selected to return for a 'Formal Second Stage Interview' with an 'Area Manager'. When I enquired as to their selection process, I was told that all would be revealed at the following interview. So for the second time in as many days, I made my way back to Park Lane. This time I found myself sat opposite a very well-groomed and career-minded chap, who proceeded to grill me about all aspects of life. And finally, during the 'any questions' bit, I asked what had made me a successful candidate for this second interview.

'We look for strong sings of class, manners and social skills. You exhibited these during the first interview and we believe that you have the makings of a 'Foxtons Man'.

Turns out it was all about the drinks. Not what drink was selected - but how it was drank. I'd taken an ice-cold Bud and poured it into the largest glass available - as is my preference. Those classless, ill-mannered and socially inept imbeciles that had taken a Coke, Evian or beer and proceeded to drink directly from the can or bottle, well those people were apparently not 'Foxtons Material'.
( Albert Marshmallow is a completely irredeemable cunt, Mon 25 Nov 2013, 13:42, 25 replies)

Sleuth
I knew a girl who very much wanted to join the Metropolitan Police. She figured after a few years on the beat, she'd like to get into serious investigation, maybe become a detective.

She was invited to interview in London. She couldn't find the office.

She went home and never mentioned it again.
(SimianKid internet faffer, Mon 25 Nov 2013, 11:01, 3 replies)

Our Price / Vshop, early 00's
After spending a few years climbing the slippery pole towards store management, find myself being interviewed for a store managers role in London, by the regional manager.
"So, if I done..." she says. The grammar nazi in me notices. Then she does it again. And again.
"Um," I interject, "...it's not 'I done', it's 'I Did'".
And in that moment I consider the monumental act of fuckwittery I have just committed. A week later I get some feedback; she calls me "Smug and arrogant". I don't get the job.

"So, how did the interview go?" Asks my current regional manager.
"Bad" says I, "I corrected her grammar."
"WHAT?!?!?", and he collapses in giggles.
"Well, she does have shocking grammar" he says, then proceeds to call the other regional managers to share my lamentable performance.

This actually stands me in good stead a few months later when I interview for another store manager position, as that regional manager already knows my name and what I did, and I got my first store managers position.
(mcnelson, Sun 24 Nov 2013, 0:03, 4 replies)

It didn't start well ...
My first interview at 17. I was hoping to become a draughtsman (this was in the day when we still used pencils instead of CAD software tools ... er ... 1984). I took along my portfolio, which was a think wad of drawings rolled up in a plastic tube.

I entered the building, ignoring the amused stares of the receptionist coz in them days I was a really fat fuck. The guy who interviewed me was sitting next to reception, so he got up, proffering a sweaty mitt in greeting.

There was a step down to reception. Just one fucking step. It was hard to miss. Yet I missed it.

My momentum launched myself forwards in a fucked-up stumbling motion. The thick wad of drawings launched themselves forwards from my tube with all the ballistic-ness of a rocket launcher. They whistled past my interviewer, grazing his ear.

He smiled politely, pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed at the blood now seeping from his lug-hole. We carried on with the pointless interview.

Miraculously I got the job ... in another dimension, possibly as I never got it in this fucking one. I never became a draughtsman. I ended up in data entry and slowly worked my way up over the next 30 years to become one of the country's leading experts in a bespoke set of programming tools with a handsome salary. Which I then blew when I was sacked last year when the large multi-national conglomerate I worked for summoned me to Birmingham for a high-level meeting. They explained to me following managerial complaints about my work-rate they'd been monitoring me, and found out I'd really done bugger all for six months. Meh. I'd lost interest. Se lavvy.
(jrd, Fri 22 Nov 2013, 20:28, 2 replies)

I was once working as a temp in a pharmaceuticals factory, and had applied for a permanent position.
During the interview I was asked if I was a 'team player', and what teams did I think I represented within the company as a whole.

'Well' says I, 'This site is compared with the other sites, so I want it to do well, and on site I guess I represent the Tablet side of production over the inhaler side. Within Tablets I guess I represent the shift I work on.'

'So you think that the shifts compete against each other, and don't work together.'

'No, it's not that. We all work together, It's just that the Night Shift are lazy cunts.'

Nailed it.
(FartThroughAWalkieTalkie wished you were dead in ditch on, Fri 22 Nov 2013, 19:32, Reply)

Failed
We were interviewing for a studio manager, and had whittled the list down to a final three. Second stage was with myself and the Marketing Director, nice chap, very sharp. We had one bloke come in who was great on paper, and who came across well. Chatty, confident, everything going well until MD asked his trademark final question.
"so, you're going to be managing 12 people and it's a pretty close knit group. If we were to get 12 of your best friends together and ask them to describe you in just one word, what would that be?"
We had had some creative answers to this in the past, and it really did a lot to sort the wheat from the chaff. He sat there, and mulled it over. Then a flash of inspiration! His face lit up, he grinned broadly and proclaimed ...
"Wanker!"

He seemed really pleased with how he had done, and chased us on a response for weeks.
(kaptinkurtz, Thu 21 Nov 2013, 15:51, 15 replies)